


Temptation

by torch



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Good Omens
Genre: First Kiss Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-24
Updated: 2007-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torch/pseuds/torch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lancelot and Crowley and chivalry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for daegaer for the first kiss meme.

_Lancelot/Crowley, please :-)_

There are some people who invite temptation merely by breathing.

If Crowley had ever told the story to anyone, later ( _much_ later), he would have shrugged and said that of course he could not have left such an earnest goodie-two-shoes alone, of course he had to whisper invisibly in his ear, or appear in any one of a myriad guises to give advice, to say that of course it's a good idea to bicker with Tristan, of course it's a good idea to notice how lovely Guenevere is, of course it's a good idea to look up at that pretty girl in the tower there and smile at her, just smile, what harm could it do, hmm? Lancelot was made for temptation, with his ferocious innocence and his hot temper and his eyes the color of a summer sky at high noon. He could be so easily steered just slightly off course, onto the path that seemed perfectly right and turned out horribly wrong.

Lancelot was made for temptation, and temptation took one look at him and fell hard.

Of course it's a good idea to sleep in this dark room where you cannot see the face of the lover who comes to lie down next to you.

It was a busy time for Crowley. Everyone wanted so badly to be good, and it was so easy to guide them wrong. And Lancelot most of all, with his battered faith and his beautiful smile that he turned so easily and randomly onto a faithful friend or loyal servant or chance-met stranger on the road, always willing to trust what they said and ride for the next tourney, the next enchanted castle, the next damsel in distress.

And when he lay sore wounded in some sunny meadow after yet another ill-chosen battle, there would always be a pavilion raised to shelter him, hung with fine silks, and invisible attendants bathing him and binding his wounds, and a kiss he would not remember on waking. He would step naked out of the pavilion, and see a snake in the tall grass by his bare feet, and it would not sting him.


End file.
